Love and Tragedy
by Jimmy Jojo
Summary: [Looking for Alibrandi]Oneshot. This is my interpretation of John Barton's final hours, written from his P.O.V.


**Love and Tragedy**

**Summary: In the book "Looking for Alibrandi", I always felt that John Barton's death wasn't detailed enough, so this one shot is my own perception of the events leading to John's death, written from John's point of view. This is only a one-shot, and it was always intended to be a one-shot, but if you approve, maybe I'll write another "Alibrandi" story, with more chapters. **

**Disclaimer: The original story, "Looking for Alibrandi" is written by Melina Marchetta, and the characters of Josphine Alibrandi and John Barton were created by her. I love them, but unfortunately, they're not mine. Some parts of the story focus on drug use and such. Sorry, if that offends anyone but I'm warning you now so you know. And if the drug parts are inaccurate, again I apologise. I didn't heavily research it, and I've never been in that situation, so I'm not sure how exactly a person in that situation would react. So, if you plan on judging me on that part of the story, I'm already aware it's flawed.**

**Note: I wrote this for an English assigment last year, and I got an 'A' for it, so it shouldn't be too bad. This is also the first story I've written on FanFiction, so please go easy on me if it sucks and you hate it. But hopefully it won't be too bad. On that note, please be honest. Don't pretend to like it if you don't, constructive criticism is great, because then I'll learn. And if you think I've left out some crucial detail, or I've interpreted the story badly, well... call it creative license. **

I didn't move from the footpath until I heard the door close behind her. I couldn't understand why it was so difficult to walk away. Perhaps it was because Josie was the only person or thing in my life that was real. She was different and unpredictable, and that's what I loved about her. Everyone else's lives seemed to be dictated by only the superficial thoughts and actions of everyone around them, whereas Josie lived for the day. She knew what she wanted to do with her life, and she wasn't afraid to go for it, even though her culture and upbringing made her future plans of being a lawyer seem impossible and embarrassing. She was the only person who ever made me want to stay and live to see what the next day would bring.

The door shut in my face. It seemed personal, even though I knew it wasn't. I trudged back down the street, scuffing my feet on the cement as I walked. I should have taken the bus but it seemed easier to walk. Sitting down forces you to think, but walking allows you to concentrate on nothing but the speed your feet hit the ground. By the time I reached my parents house, all the feelings of freedom and enlightenment walking had given me, seemed to fade away. Now it felt as if two 500kg weights had been dropped into the centre of my stomach. I slowly opened the front door, and silently walked through the extravagantly furnished hallway towards the stairs.

"John,"

Not again, I thought to myself. What does he want this time?

"John, come here. We need to talk," my father persisted from the living room.

"What?" I stood in the doorway, looking at the back of his head. As he turned to look at me, I glanced away. I couldn't bear to see the look of disappointment I knew would be there, like it always was. I gazed around the living room. Like the hall, it was immaculate, like the posh hotels my father insists we stay in when he travels. The television was blaring in the corner, my mother's gaze fixed on the current affairs program showing on channel 9. I suddenly realised that not one object in our living room proved that this was the Barton family. It proved that the family who lived here could afford Persian carpets, and Italian lamps, but nothing that made it any more than a rich house.

"John, I called the school, this afternoon," he began. I wondered what St. Anthony's had told him this time. Maybe they'd complained that I was 2 minutes late to English- oh, horror of horrors! "Mr O' Donnell informed me that you achieved only an B-plus in your algebra this term." From the way he said 'B-plus', you'd have thought I'd failed every subject this semester. "Father, it's still a very good result," I argued. "And besides, I've done extremely well in all my other exams. It won't affect my final grade!"

"John, I don't have time to hear your excuses! I didn't raise my son to just do _well_. I raised my son to be a winner and a leader! And you've let me down. You've let the family down." His voice quietened on the last bit. I could see my mother sitting on the sofa, avoiding the eyes of both my father and me. I could feel the tears pricking my ears, but I choked down my tears, wanting nothing less than for my father to see my crying.

"Father, can't you, for once in my life, accept that I'm not perfect. Just for one day," I didn't want to sound like I was begging, but I knew I was.

"John I never said I wanted you to be perfect, I…"

"No!" I interrupted. "You didn't. You wanted me to be you! But I can't do that!"

I ran from the room, and I kept running until I reached my room. By the time I threw myself on the bed, I was crying my eyes out. I grabbed a pillow and hugged it so hard my fingers were turning purple. I was acting childish, but I didn't care. I was so sick of his bullshit. I was so sick of everyone's bullshit. I just wanted it to end. I wiped my tears away, my entire hand shaking. I opened the door and walked down the hall to the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror for what seemed like hours, though I'm sure it was only a few minutes. My face was red and puffy from crying, and my cheeks looked swollen. I had to steady my hands on the basin, because my entire body was shaking, and I was scared that my legs would collapse from underneath me.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I realised it wasn't going to get any better. My life was shit, and I hated myself for being so ignorant as to believe things might change. All of a sudden my hand shot up and punched the mirror. It wasn't like in movies. Almost no shards of glass were left lying on the floor, and only a crack down the centre of the mirror was left as evidence. My hand however, had a huge gash across the fingers, and was covered in blood. Although I'm usually someone who goes queasy at the sight of blood, this time I didn't mind. The pain actually felt good, it felt exhilarating. I opened up the medicine cabinet to see if there was a bandage. There wasn't. But I didn't care anymore. The numerous bottles of various painkillers and mood-enhancers were what caught my eye. While some people might see my thoughts as pure stupidity, I prefer to think of them as an opportunity, a chance to get out, forever. I grabbed a handful of the bottles, probably four or so. I can't remember exactly what was in them, but I remember at least one label said 'paracetamol' and another said 'anti-depressants' (probably mum's). I grabbed them all and walked shakily back to my room.

The bottles were now covered in my blood, but it didn't faze me. With a shaky hand I opened them all and covered my bedspread with dozens of brightly coloured pills, of all shapes and sizes. Without thinking too hard about it, I took a small handful of the pills and shoved them in my mouth. After about ten seconds I swallowed them. I thought about it for a few seconds, but I didn't feel any different. I took another handful, and this time it only took about three seconds to swallow. After my fourth handful, I stopped. I still felt the same, but the repetitiveness of taking the pills was getting to me. There was still about half of them left scattered over the bed, but I pushed them off onto the floor. I heard my parents talking downstairs, probably about what a failure I've been all my life. I lay back on my bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for something to change. After about 10 minutes, my stomach began to churn, I felt nausea coming on, but at the same time, I couldn't throw up. Even though I couldn't pinpoint the exact location of the pain, it was like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was excruciating, like my chest was being ripped in every direction.

I tried to breathe but I couldn't, I just curled up waiting for it to end. I knew it was the drugs. They were working like I wanted them to, like I needed them to. I lay there clutching my chest for ages, maybe even hours, and as every second ticked by on the clock, the pain just kept getting worse. After awhile I couldn't feel my muscles, let alone move them. I could feel myself slowly dying, but as agonizing as it was, I knew it was right. It was the worst possible physical feeling imaginable, but compared to life downstairs, it was as good as what people envisioned as heaven, that beautiful imaginary place that people make up to make their own pitiful existence seem worth it. After a while longer, I could feel the pain leaving, and I began to feel drowsy, and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and drift off to sleep. Maybe they didn't work, I thought to myself. Maybe it was just a temporary thing, and my body beat it. I knew that was unlikely. The more I thought about it, the more tired I felt. I began to close my eyes, letting unconsciousness take over my weak body. It was pleasant and beautiful and felt so right, and as I allowed myself to fall, all I could think of was Josie.

Fin.


End file.
